Erik expected no less of himself.

Steel Wolf DropShip Lupus

Achernar

2 May 3133

“Iwill allow the death of star captain laren mehta to be recorded as a fitting warrior’s end, though my review of the battle-rom footage is not nearly so generous, star colonel. mehta should have held cover over your insertion. that is the last bit of charity i expect you to need from me.”

The voice floated in from Torrent’s office, calm and steady yet still possessing a rough-edged threat that promised that this was a man used to giving orders. Every word had been chosen with care and the smallest pause followed after each as the speaker overenunciated, making certain that he would always be clearly understood. It was a voice for the Senate floor, command-level staff meetings, and battlefield frequencies all three.

Leaning over the washbasin of his office’s small, attached lavatory Torrent glared at himself from beneath angry brows. He had no need to watch the holographic message again, having spent enough time in Prefect Radick’s company to know that his commander’s face betrayed no personal thoughts. He left it playing so that Kal Radick’s orders would set themselves firmly in his mind, and as a reminder that Achernar was only one stepping stone toward the Steel Wolves’ ultimate goal. On the far bank waited Tikonov, Duke Aaron Sandoval, and control of Prefecture IV.

Torrent’s lip twitched up into the beginning of a snarl, which he quickly suppressed. Palming a handful of oily gel, he smeared it back over his head. Thick, black stubble scraped against his hand. The unscented gel smelled caustic, almost rancid.

Picking up the curved blade at the side of his washbasin, Torrent raised it to his scalp and set the laser-sharpened edge against his skin starting at his widow’s peak. With a long, slow pull he shaved it back—careful, calm—over the crown of his pate. Softened to wire brush stiffness, the stubble rasped against the knife’s edge. He took another stripe to the left of the first, then used the side of the basin to scrape the knife clean of gel and shavings.

“Now. You should remember enough from our planning sessions to know how much I value Achernar and Ronel. Colton Fetladral’s report, which I have attached, proves that we underestimated the dedication of Katana Tormark’s forces and the resolve of CEO Bannson to resist our offers of alliance.” A longer pause, for effect Torrent felt certain. “That man has a private agenda, I swear.”

Torrent contemplated the edge of his blade. It glinted a cruel, steel blue in the lavatory’s dim light, and reminded him of his previously delicate position on Achernar balanced between the Swordsworn and Republic. A position that had changed overnight. Jacob Bannson was not the only one with a hidden agenda, he knew. Sandoval. The name crept back into his thoughts. Erik Sandoval. Returning to his morning ablutions he shaved another rasping strip from the side of his head, careful of his own ear as the blade whispered against it. The personal maintenance forced Torrent to calm, focus.

“Still, Bannson remains of secondary importance so long as Katana Tormark continues to devil our worlds. The Dragon Lady professes complete ignorance, of course, but I know that it is she. One of her suicide samurai buried a Visigoth into the bridge of Fetladral’s Bloody Hunt during his insertion run.” A chime sounded in the office as someone rang through from the corridor. “It never recovered.”

Torrent leaned back through the door, called, “Come.” He cleaned his blade again, and then went to work on his right side.

He knew it would be Nikola Demos, and he knew the holographic image that the armor-driving star captain walked in on. It was the kind of image that haunted every ground-force commander. Even him. A once-graceful Gazelle–class DropShip, though you could never tell from the strewn, fire-blackened wreckage that was left of it. In one terrifying moment following the Miraborg-death of an aerospace fighterpilot, Colton Fetladral lost a star of converted WorkMechs, an armor binary, and any chance of taking Ronel.

Without help.

“It comes down to this,” Kal Radick promised. “Choosing between taking a harder line with the enemy I know, Aaron Sandoval, and the enemy I do not know as well, Katana Tormark. In this, I must choose Tormark. She is an accomplished military leader with an aggressive force backing her. It is of long-term importance that we convince her to stay on her own side of the Prefecture border. In fact, opposing her in this manner will cement our position on Achernar as well. In the end, we prove that what we are doing is both prudent and sound in directly occupying important worlds.”

Cleaning his blade one last time against the basin’s edge, Torrent returned the wicked little knife to its scabbard at the small of his back. Grabbing a damp towel hanging nearby, the star colonel draped it over his scalp and rubbed away the remaining gel as he stepped back into his office. Nikola Demos stood defiantly near his desk, arms akimbo, staring at the diminutive projection of Galaxy Commander Kal Radick. She had pulled her gleaming black hair severely back from her face, giving her a hard, hawkish profile. Her dark blue eyes held no warmth for the orders she sensed—even from just a short lead in by the Steel Wolf leader—were coming.

“This change in priorities comes at an awkward time and through no fault of your own. Star Colonel Fetladral concedes that his victory shall be your victory. Your victory, Star Colonel Torrent, is mine. Anything you might accomplish on Achernar will only add to our honor. You have my greatest confidence.”

Nikola Demos turned as the holographic message winked out, recycled, and then began again with the Steel Wolf icon floating ominously over Torrent’s working desk. “His greatest confidence? Great Father! What about the occupation force?”

“Shifted to support Colton Fetladral,” Torrent acknowledged as he thumbed off the holovid player. He moved with a slow economy of motion, deliberate and controlled. “We are abandoned.”

“Can we still win?” Nikola jumped right for the neck, seizing hold of the problem and dragging it to the ground. “Can we take Achernar?” She pressed her mouth into a thin, hard line.

Torrent felt his lip curling again. “Before or after Erik Sandoval’s Swordsworn gutted your foraging unit?” He felt the white fury building up within him again. Overriding the impulse to lash out, knowing that Nikola Demos had, in fact, set a sound escort for the B’her Valley raid, Torrent moved behind his chair and exercised his muscles against the back rest.

“We might,” he said slowly, evenly. Although they could never hold onto Achernar if Aaron Sandoval pushed out against them from Tikonov. The Steel Wolves would have opened up the world for the Swordsworn to take. “Perhaps. If we can split the alliance between Swordsworn and Republic.”

“How will you do that?”

Torrent relaxed his grip on the chair back, turning his mind away from Erik Sandoval and the Swordsworn’s ambush even as he turned away from Nikola to grab his uniform jacket off a hook. “By destroying the man who forged it,” he said. Sandoval would be dealt with, in time. Before that, Torrent would deal with Knight-Errant Kyle Powers.

Achernar Militia Command

Achernar

The world shook and Raul Ortega bolted upright in his bed. Achernar’s furious, late-morning sun slammed into the window of Raul’s base-assigned quarters, slashing by the cheap, vinyl blinds to stab blinding pokers into the forefront of his brain. Light birdsong and the rolling crush of heavy trucks—those were his first coherent impressions of the morning. His tongue felt thick and gritty. His mouth tasted like the birds had nested in it. There was no good reason to wake up feeling so awful, but about a dozen poor reasons.